


It Could Only Be You

by Noelleian



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Post-Endless Waltz, Romance, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noelleian/pseuds/Noelleian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trowa's become accustomed to hearing about Quatre's whirlwind romances, but when Duo informs him that the blond has decided to tie the knot, he begins to regret the choice he made two years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! So, I wanted to write a Runaway Bride 3x4 romcom. It's not so much Runaway Bride, though. Oops. My bad. This is a two shot. Nothing long, or complicated. Just a hopefully fun and lighthearted read! Hope you like! ^_^
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own so please don't sue.

Duo must have facepalmed about fifty times in the last fifteen minutes. Trowa seemed perpetually unable to understand the gravity of the situation. He was of half a mind to slam the laptop closed and just say, “Fuck it.” Problem was, he simply cared too much about his friends, believed in his heart of hearts that Trowa and Quatre were meant to be. This whole situation just seemed so wrong.

“He's got a new guy. Looks like you. Again.”

“Good for him. What else is new?”

Duo felt the incredulity on his own face and knew it was obvious when Trowa looked irritated and snapped, “What?”

“Does this not bother you?” Trowa shrugged and turned back to folding his laundry. Duo stared through the computer monitor at the brunette's bare back, watching the muscles shift beneath the skin, and wondered how dense his friend had to be to not _get_ this. He could also see the sweat that coated Trowa's skin from ten feet away and remembered the circus was currently in Florida. “Don’t you have air conditioning?”

Trowa glanced at him over his shoulder as he folded a t-shirt. “Cathy has it in her room.”

“Might want to invest in another one, buddy. Your bangs aren’t as...springy...as usual.”

Trowa tossed the shirt down onto his bed and turned to face him. “Is there an actual point to this discussion?”

Duo threw up his hands in exasperation. “I don’t know! Is there? You’d think another guy getting into Quat’s pants would get more of a reaction out of you than this - this...cadaver impression you've got down to an art form.” Though, despite his frustration, he was getting hot just watching the sweat roll down the prominent pecs and ridges of Trowa’s abdomen. He wiped a hand across his damp forehead and momentarily questioned his sexuality. “I can’t believe this doesn’t bother you.”

“If it bothers _you_ so much, why don’t you date him?”

“Ha. Ha. Ha. You’re a funny guy, Tro. Not that I'd be opposed to shacking up with Blondie, but Hilde would murder me.”

“Are we finished?”

“No! Not until you admit your undying love for Quat. Preferably to _him_.”

“Bye, Duo. Nice talking to you.”

“But, Tro -”

Trowa closed his laptop and stepped away, swiping a small hand towel off his bed and using it to wipe the sweat off his face and chest. He propped his hands on his hips and blew out a heavy sigh. It had to be a stifling one hundred twenty degrees in here. The tiny portable fan accomplished nothing except to move the scorching, stagnant air around. Perhaps it was time to invest in a window rattler.

 

***

 

Trowa had thought war was Hell, but nope. He was so wrong. Hell was erecting a giant circus tent in ninety seven degree heat with one hundred percent humidity. He pushed his bandanna up his forehead and rubbed stinging perspiration out of his eyes. The cloth tied around his head was only useful until it became so drenched that it stopped preventing the sweat from running down his face. He pulled it off and wrung it out, his eyes widening at how much fluid dripped from the soaked cloth. 

"Jesus."

Who in their right mind would actually _choose_ to live in this sun-baked swamp?

“Yoo hoo!” He turned at Cathy’s cheerful chirp and watched his sister’s approach as he tied the wet bandanna back onto his head. She tentatively balanced a tray on her arm with two glasses of lemonade teetering on top. The melting ice made a pleasant tinkling sound against the glass and Trowa’s mouth watered at the prospect of cool refreshment, wondering how he hadn’t sweated out his saliva yet. 

She stopped in front of him and graced him with a bright smile. She was wearing her signature bikini top in hot pink and a pair of cutoff denim shorts. In her other hand, she clutched a white parasol to protect her from the worst of the sun's rays. Her skin was only mildly damp in contrast to his. Trowa accepted the beverage with a derisive grunt. His wet fingers slipped in the condensation on the outside of the glass and he had to grip it tightly to keep from dropping it. He shot her an irritable, resentful glare when she clinked their glasses together. No one had the right to be so perky in this God awful heat.

He grudgingly acknowledged that Cathy would be one of those people who chose to live in this sauna, otherwise known as the Sunshine State. Trowa grumpily drank his lemonade, cringing slightly at sickly sweet taste. Why did she have to put so much _sugar_ in it? 

Too thirsty to give a fuck, he tipped his head back and guzzled it down. It was so hot, the walnut sized ice cubes were now only half the size of a quarter. He crunched on them eagerly, still parched. 

“How’s it going?” She asked him. He cracked ice between his teeth and gave her a look that said, _How do you think?_  

She picked up on it easily and scoffed, applying a kick to the back of his calf with a flip-flopped foot. “Oh, don’t be so grouchy!”

Trowa reached up and grasped the cords that were used to tie the giant canvas cover to its poles. He yanked them tight and threaded them through the loops and hooks on the pole. “I’ll be less “grouchy” when I’m not on the verge of a heatstroke. Whose bright idea was it to schedule our itinerary so that we would end up in Florida in the middle of July?”

“Oh, it’s not that bad. Don’t be a drama queen.”

“Says the woman who doesn’t have to put this thing up.”

“Duo called, by the way.”

Trowa groaned and pressed his forehead against the steel pole, lamenting the fact that it wasn’t even cool enough to feel good on his overheated skin. “What now?”

“He said it was urgent.”

“Of course he did." Everything with Duo was urgent. Everything was an emergency. The last time Duo said it was urgent, it had been to ask Trowa to settle an argument between him and Wufei over whether sharks were fish, or mammals. Trowa couldn’t imagine what kind of pressing matter needed his immediate attention now, but he was sure it was just as stupid as the last time.

“I’ll go see what he wants. I need a break anyway.”

Cathy grabbed his shirt which was hanging over one of the support rods and handed it to him. “Wipe that sweat off. I don’t want you dripping all over the carpet.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he muttered, rubbing the soft cotton of the tee over his drenched skin and hair. He grimaced at the wet splotch left behind and slung it over his shoulder as he made the trek back to their trailer. He had to wipe himself down a second time because the walk in the oppressive sun had him sweating all over again. 

He stepped into his room and flicked on the air conditioning unit that blocked half his window now. He tipped his head back and raised his arms out to the sides, sighing in sweet relief at the almost frigid air that blew against his damp skin. It was such a stark contrast, he shivered involuntarily as he spun in a slow circle, then used the shirt to wipe off the last of the perspiration. 

Finally cool enough to think straight, he pulled his chair out, plopping down in front of his desk, and flipped open his laptop. He pulled up his contacts and found Duo’s, clicking on the name. The video call screen opened, black for the moment. He rested his chin on his fist as he waited for Duo to pick up.

“Y’ello! Oh hey, Tro. How’s it hangin’, dude?”

Trowa blinked at Duo’s image, his keen eyes taking in the almost nervous expression despite the braided man trying to cover it with a smile. “What did you want this time?”

Duo tipped up the bill of his cap and scratched his cheek. It was a trademark gesture of his when he was uneasy, or worried about something. “Erm...it’s about Quat.”

Trowa’s resting bitch face never changed. “What? He broke up with his latest fling? What’s his record now? Six in six months? This isn’t news, Duo. He’ll find another one.” He was trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but Duo faltered for a moment, almost as if he’d caught it. Trowa mentally kicked himself and increased his attempts to school his features and voice into neutrality. 

The problem was, Trowa _was_ bitter. Very much so. Quatre tried to start a relationship with him ten years ago, even confessed his love for him. Trowa panicked, terrified at the prospect of not only being in a relationship, but being in one with someone like Quatre. Someone who was beautiful and loving and kind and intelligent. Quatre was everything Trowa wasn’t. Popular, outgoing, friendly, charismatic, ridiculously wealthy. How, or why the blond had ever fallen in love with him was incomprehensible. 

Instead of responding in kind even though he felt the same, the only thing he could think of to do was escape, to run away because it was just too much and it could never work in a million years. They were from two different worlds. It would just never work. So he shut it down in the most effective way possible which unfortunately, was to break the blond’s heart. Even to this day, he felt like dog shit that had been stepped on and left out in the hot sun. And despite the fact that he’d walked away two years ago, his feelings for Quatre never wavered. He was still in love with him and it hurt.

He justified it by telling himself it was for the best and tried to move on with his life. But he thought about the blond often and it was difficult to pretend he didn’t care when Duo called to tell him Quatre was seeing a new guy. Truth was, he did care. What he really wanted to do was pummel each and every one of Quatre’s boyfriends to a bloody pulp and tell them never to go near him again. It pissed him off even though he couldn’t blame Quatre for trying to move on with his own life.

Though he hadn’t expected Quatre to become somewhat of a serial dater. His flings were passionate, as told by the media, but always short lived, with the blond eventually dumping his lovers before the month was over. Trowa, and Duo, also didn’t fail to notice how every man Quatre dated possessed an almost eerie resemblance to Trowa. Tall, muscular, with brown hair. Something Duo never failed to mention whenever he called to tell him Quatre had a new beau. 

He stared through the video screen, watching Duo fidget, and waited for yet another account of the flighty blond’s escapades ending in yet another Trowa doppelganger getting his heart broken. The odd thing was, Duo was never nervous when he reported to Trowa about Quatre’s break ups. Typically, he used it as an opportunity to goad Trowa into making his move.

“Tro...Quat’s getting married.”

Trowa's expression didn’t change. He never even moved. To an onlooker, he would have seemed completely unfazed, but inside, dumb shock had taken over. 

“What?” He tried, he really did, to keep his voice steady, and winced when the question came out in more of a squeak than a word.

“The guy...Evan, his name is. I don’t know if I told you that when I talked to you last month. He proposed, Tro. And Quat said yes.”

Trowa leaned back, blinking at the screen. He heard what Duo said, but for some reason, it wasn't computing. Quatre... _married?_  This was something he hadn't anticipated. Quatre jumping from one relationship to the next was one thing, but this...this was...this was something he wasn't prepared to handle.

Duo was waving his hand in front of the screen. "Hellooo? Tro? Did I break you? You okay, man?"

 _No, I'm not okay!_ "Yeah, I'm okay."

"You sure? Because I could have sworn -"

"Thanks for letting me know, Duo. I have to go."

"Well, wait a minute. What's going on? Did I finally hit a nerve? You know, you still might have time to -"

"Bye, Duo."

"Damn it, Tro -" _Slam!_ Trowa stared at the white painted wall behind his desk, too stunned to do anything else. He never once believed Quatre would actually get married. He didn't know how to process this information. He jumped a little at the soft knock at his door and shook himself out of his zombie-like state, running a hand through his hair. 

"Yeah."

The door cracked open and Cathy's head popped in. "Everything alright?"

 _No._ "Yes." He stood up from his chair and stepped over to the door. "I've got to get back to work." He brushed past Cathy who waved her hand in front of her nose.

"Pew! Remember to take a shower when you're done."

 

***

 

Trowa was forced to endure more of his sister's company as he cleaned out the lion's cages. As if the smell wasn't bad enough on a normal day, the heat made it infinitely worse. Of course, it was his job since he'd practically begged the ringmaster to keep them after the stodgy man had made arrangements to sell them. Trowa wasn't above clasping his hands in front of him and dropping to his knees.

The ringmaster had sniffed. "Fine. But they're your responsibility. Feed them, bathe them, exercise them, and muck out the cages. I'm too old to deal with it."

This time, Trowa's bandanna was covering his nose and mouth as he shoveled the manure into a wheelbarrow to be buried.

"You look like a gang member."

Trowa's eyes were sharp over the red cloth covering half his face. "Is there a reason you're here?"

Cathy looked mock offended. "What? You don't like my company?"

Actually, it wasn't all bad. Cathy just had a penchant for trying to discuss Trowa's love life, or lack thereof. It was...complicated. He didn't know how to tell her that the only one for him was Quatre, but that he'd broken his heart because he was afraid of having a relationship with him. And he had virtually zero interest in dating anyone else. But Cathy was nothing if not totally onto him.

"It's him, isn't it?"

"Who?"

"Don't play dumb, Trowa. You know who."

God, it was too hot for this. "Can we not talk about this right now?" He wasn't thrilled about discussing the lost love of his life while shoveling lion shit. 

Cathy shrugged, not bothered in the slightest. She twirled the parasol on her shoulder and crossed one bare leg over the other, foot kicking idly in the air. "Suit yourself. What happened between you two anyway? You never told me."

"Nothing."

"Doesn't seem like nothing."

"Cathy -" He lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, but thought better of it after looking down at his manure stained work gloves. "Look, it just isn't something that's feasible, okay?"

"Why not?"

Damn, but were girls always this obtuse? "Because he's rich and famous. Everybody loves him. Who am I? A nobody." He gestured towards the poop-filled wheelbarrow. " _Look_ at me, Cath! I'm cleaning shit out of a cage!"

"Don't be vulgar. It was your choice to keep them."

He dropped his arms and tipped his head back, gazing heavenward. Did she have to be so infuriating? He scraped the last of the manure off the bottoms of the cages and tapped the shovel's tip against the edge of the wheelbarrow to dislodge it, his face contorting in revulsion. "Never mind."

Cathy huffed, a putout sounding sigh as if this was inconveniencing her in some way, and closed her magazine. "If you say so. Just know, you can tell me anything. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know. Thanks."

"And if you love him, go _get_ him! Who cares about all that class stuff?"

 _Lots of people,_ he thought, but didn't voice it. 

"Does he care that you're not rich?"

"No."

"So then, why should you?" She stood up, tucking her magazine beneath her arm, and folded her lawn chair. "Honestly, Trowa. It's not a crime to be happy. I really wish you'd quit punishing yourself, or thinking you're not worthy, or whatever it is you're doing. I'd much rather that than see you moping around here all the time."

"I don't mope."

She rolled her eyes and perched her parasol back on her shoulder. "Sure you don't. I'm going to take a nap before tonight's performance. You need anything?"

"No, I'm good. I'm just going to hose these cages down and bury the sh - poop. I'll probably take a nap, too, after that."

"After you shower."

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. "Yes, after I shower. Jesus."

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain."

Trowa shot her a perplexed look. "Since when do you care about blasphemy?"

She shrugged and slid her sunglasses onto her nose. "I don't. Just seemed appropriate."

He snorted, leaning on the shovel handle, and watched her leave. He listened to the _fwap fwap_ of her flip flops slapping against her heels as she walked and rubbed an itchy spot on his nose beneath the bandanna. Why did the damned thing have to itch? He propped the shovel on top of the wheelbarrow and pushed it to the spot where he would bury the manure. He was completely soaked by the time he was done and hosed himself down in the refreshing cold water before he turned the spray on the cages. 

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Duo was right. The only reason he and Quatre weren't together was because of his own hangups. He didn't know how he would be able to get through Quatre getting married, especially if he was invited to the wedding, which he doubted. 

_Trowa, I love you and I think you love me, too._

_I don't love anyone. Not even you._

He winced at the memory, kicking himself for being so cruel. They hadn't spoken since so it was unlikely he would be invited. Maybe he could crash it? Do the old, clichéd 'bust in when the priest asks if there's anyone who doesn't believe these two should be joined in matrimony, speak now, or forever hold your peace and declare his love for the bride' spiel. He tried to envision doing that and wound up picturing the herd of Quatre's twenty nine sisters beating him over the head with their jeweled handbags.

He could kidnap him. Throw the blond over his shoulder and run out of the Mosque and into a waiting getaway car. But the likelihood of successfully pulling that off was slim to none. It wasn't easy to abduct and hide away a multi-billionaire playboy, especially one who'd been a Gundam pilot. Not to mention the fact that Quatre would probably not appreciate it.

_Hmm. Maybe that's a bad idea._

Of course, Duo would probably tell him to go for it. There was really only one person he could objectively talk to about this. Someone who would tell him the honest to God truth. He finished washing the cages out and unhooked the lions' chains from around the trees. They'd been languishing in the shade of the surrounding forest and weren't too keen on moving. He managed to usher them back and promised them a tasty treat after the show. They yawned and curled up in their cages, going back to sleep. 

He headed back to the trailer and immediately jumped into the shower. It felt so good to wash the sweat and grime off. He tried not to groan in relief because it would no doubt wake Cathy up which would inevitabely lead to awkward questions. He considered jacking off, but decided he was too tired. He glanced down at his dick which hung limp against his thigh. "Why are _you_ so tired? I did all the work." 

He dried off quickly and tiptoed past Cathy's room, not missing the loud snores that drifted through the door. Once in his own room, he flipped the air conditioner on and sat down at his desk. He took a moment to brace himself. The person he was about to talk to hadn't spoken to him in ten years either. He wasn't sure how his call would be received. 

_Here goes nothing..._

He opened his laptop and pulled up his contacts. Near the bottom of the list, he selected Heero Yuy's private number and clicked on it. Folding his hands over his mouth, he waited anxiously for his old comrade to pick up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was originally going to be a twoshot, but it's expanded into what I'm pretty sure will be a fiveshot. Next chapter will be Trowa's POV again and the last will be Quatre's, plus an epilogue. 
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to @morbidbirdy. Hope you like it, girl! ^.^

“You look splendid, my good Sir. If I may be so bold.”

Quatre resisted the urge to roll his eyes and fiddled with the black cummerbund wrapped around his middle. “You may,” he said with a barely audible sigh and could not resist adding under his breath, “Allah knows you’ve already got your head so far up my ass, you can see what I had for lunch.”

“Beg your pardon, Sir?”

“Nothing.” He turned away from the mirror and stepped down from the carpeted platform. The tailor immediately rushed over and began fussing over nonexistent imperfections. Quatre bit down on his lip to keep from snapping at the man whose hands fluttered over his person like a fretting grandmother. He endured adjustments he really didn’t need and clenched his hands into fists, fighting the temptation to deck the simpering sycophant when he felt a pin poke into the skin of his thigh.

“My apologies, Sir.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse.” It was strange, but even after ten years, the stab wound he’d survived still ached when the air turned chill and damp. And, ironically enough, when Dorothy Catalonia was in sniping distance.

“If I may, how did you get that injury, Sir?”

Now that was a can of worms Quatre was not thrilled about opening any time soon. Sufficed to say, just thinking about it drudged up memories that were much better off being laid to rest. Weeks of unbearable pain, a perpetual drug-induced haze, and at the center of it all was a young man who, when Quatre confessed his undying love, ran for the hills and never looked back.

“Long story. Are we finished?”

The tailor hesitated, uncertain, as if he was still itching to tweak Quatre’s tux, but he seemed to sense the blond’s slightly agitated state and wisely decided to back off. “Yes, Sir. If you are happy with it -”

“Happy is a strong word,” Quatre muttered and left the fitting room without elaborating to change back into his street clothes. Stephen would be happy with it and he supposed that would have to be enough.

Trowa was the reason he was in this whole mess to begin with. Actually, that wasn’t fair. Quatre made his own choices, but he couldn’t pretend that those choices weren’t rooted in the festering soil of unrequited love.

It was Trowa he loved, Trowa he wanted, but he could not have him so he’d settled for the next best thing.

Several next best things, if he were honest. It was embarrassing now when he looked back at the last ten years, his decade-long history of flighty romances. He couldn’t help but flush with mortification when he wondered what Trowa thought about all this. Especially after his fourth attempt with yet another brown-haired, green-eyed doppleganger, one who went by the name Darius. The jilted former fling immediately ran to the press armed with an Oscar-worthy performance complete with stolen, private photos of the two of them and a bucket of crocodile tears. In the wake of that disaster, the media had finally sniffed out Quatre’s “type” and with that revelation, the speculation about who he was pining over began to spread like wildfire.

He had no idea if Trowa kept up with the news, or the latest gossip, but prayed he didn’t. If Trowa didn’t think he was a complete flake already, he’d surely keep an entire earth’s hemisphere away from him if he’d ever managed to catch sight of a damning headline, or Allah forbid, dared to venture into an op-ed.

Quatre vaguely remembered him bitching about Cathy’s celeb gossip shows and held out hope that if she still watched them, she did so when he was not around, though he knew that he was probably deluding himself. Trowa wasn’t stupid, or blind, nor did he exist in an isolated vacuum out in the middle of nowhere, sans technology. He knew, as surely as Quatre _knew_ he knew. His admittedly disturbing obsession with Trowa was laid out for all the world to see. In essence, he’d dug his own metaphorical grave.

Not that he didn’t have one foot in it already. Trowa’s rejection was proof enough of that so what did he really have to lose? At least, that was what he told himself in the quiet hours of endless sleepless nights. Trowa didn’t care, so why should he?

The problem was, these men that he’d been with, though they shared similar physical traits with Trowa, well, they still weren't Trowa. Not even close and Quatre couldn't find the will to move past that. It wasn’t always obvious things either. The differences were significant all the way down to the smallest details. Idiosyncrasies, mannerisms, gestures, even their body language and facial expressions were all wrong.

There was no substitute for the real thing and that left Quatre with no other option than to settle for second best.

And really, Stephen was a good guy. Probably the one man he’d dated that looked the least like Trowa and maybe that was a good thing. Now that he was actually getting married, he had to start doubling his efforts to forget about Trowa. Commitment inevitably changed the game, though he was finding it exceedingly difficult to get his heart to listen to his brain.

He slipped his shirt on and leaned forward, thumping his forehead against the mirror with a groan. “What the hell am I doing?”

He wasn’t even aware he’d told Stephen yes until after the fact. It just slipped out and Stephen looked so damned happy, he just didn’t have the heart to take it back.

“Fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Quat. Real fine mess.”

“Sir?”

He jerked his head up and quickly rubbed the smudge his forehead left behind on the mirror with his sleeve. “What?” The tailor paused at the hasty bark and then cleared his throat. “I just wanted to let you know I have your tux bagged and it’s at the front whenever you’re ready. No rush.”

“Okay, thank you.”

He listened to the soft shuffle and jingle of keys fade as the man walked away and sat down on the small bench with a heavy sigh, sliding his feet back into his booties and lacing them up. From here, it was lunch with Iria and then home to get some work done. Stephen was staying late at the office to finish up some last minute things before they left for their honeymoon Saturday evening which was just as well. He needed some time alone.

And a drink, or five.

 

*******

 

“Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?” Iria asked him after the waiter brought their ice water and took their orders. “I mean, you’re getting married the day after tomorrow. Aren’t you supposed to be over the moon? With your head in the clouds? The ecstatic, blushing bride?”

Quatre yanked the wrapper off his straw, shoved it between the ice cubes floating in his water glass, and glared at his sister. “You ever call me a “bride” again, I’ll write you out of my will.”

Iria dipped her fingers into her own water and then flicked them at her glowering brother. “Not much of a threat, alhabiba. As one of L4’s top surgeons, I’m not exactly hurting for money. Besides, you’re the one in white, are you not?”

He pouted and toyed with his lemon wedge. “It’s the principle of the thing.” He paused, glancing over the iron railing and down towards the bustling plaza below. “The white was Stephen’s idea. He’s wearing black.” Stephen’s chivalrous suggestion that Quatre wear white on their wedding day was kind of flattering, albeit rather sexist. Stephen was traditional, old school as Duo would say, and Quatre didn’t quite know how he felt about that yet.

“If we’re talking principles, now might be a good time to question yours.”

He glanced up sharply, not sure if he heard her right. “What?”

Iria leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “I can’t help but notice you seem less than thrilled about your upcoming nuptials.”

“How perceptive of you,” he muttered.

She chose to ignore the sarcasm, at least for the time being which he was grateful for. “You getting cold feet?”

“Doesn’t cold feet apply to last minute jitters?”

“So that’s not what this is?”

Quatre didn’t answer, but he looked like someone had just accused him of kicking a puppy. A light bulb flickered on over Iria’s head. “Oh, Quat…”

“Iria, please don’t. Not -”

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

He paused and looked away, feeling the heat burn his cheeks. “Him who?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, _al’akh al’asghar_. I’m a Winner, too. I know that look.”

“What look?”

“That faux guileless expression our family has mastered down to an art form. Winners can fool anyone _except_ other Winners.” Her blue eyes, dark like the ocean, twinkled over the rim of her glass. “It’s that kid, isn’t it? Trevor?”

Damn. He should have known better. Iria was sharper than a rusty tack as were all thirty of the Winner children, contrary to their late father who was quite obtuse at times. He supposed that old saying, ‘talent skips a generation’ had some merit. He was fairly certain their name meant 'bullshitter' in their native tongue. “Trowa,” he admitted. “And he’s hardly a “kid”. He’s twenty six.”

“I’m forty two, alhabiba. Trust me, you two are kids.” She leaned forward and reached for his hands which he placed into hers. “You can’t spend your life wasting away, waiting for a man that will never come.”

“Why the hell do you think I accepted Stephen’s marriage proposal?”

“Yes, but you’re still thinking of Trevor -”

“Trowa.”

“Trowa,” she corrected. “You’ve got to let him go, alhabiba.”

“I’m trying!” Now he was getting defensive and he pressed his lips together when his shrill proclamation drew a few curious stares.

“Do you love Stephen?”

Allah, _why_ did she have to ask him that? Granted, it was a valid question and he knew it was coming. He’d sensed the impending doom and tried to prepare himself when it was inevitably voiced. Now, it hung in the air between them like a volatile thundercloud and Quatre had no idea how to answer it.

“I - I think - I don’t know,” he admitted and rubbed his hands over his face in aggravation. He supposed he did, in his own way, and he hoped he would grow to love Stephen as time went on, _actually_ love him. He was a good man. Kind, attentive, sexy, hard-working, dedicated. He was damn good in bed. And he loved Quatre.

“He adores you,” Iria echoed his thoughts. “Worships the ground you walk on. I can see it in his eyes every time he looks at you. If you marry him without reciprocating that love, you are doing a wonderful man a terrible disservice. He deserves someone who will love him in return.”

Quatre winced and sucked the lemon juice off his fingers, needing something to do and something to ease the guilt rising like a cresting river. The bitterness was a welcome distraction and he used the reprieve to organize the chaos in his mind.

“I...don’t want to break his heart, Iria. You didn’t see him the night he proposed. His face...he was so happy. I couldn’t take it back. I just couldn’t. It would have crushed him and I - I know what that feels like.” He couldn’t stomach making Stephen feel the way Trowa had made him feel. It felt almost barbaric to do so.

“Alhabiba…” Iria’s voice was solemn, sympathetic as she took his hand in hers. “I can understand that. But don’t you think you’d be doing more harm than good in the long run? He may hurt now, but at least he’ll have a chance to get over it, over you, and find meaningful love.”

“You mean like I did?” Quatre asked, more bitter than he had a right to be. He was being selfish, he knew that. And Iria was right.

“I didn’t mean it like that, easal. You know that, don’t you?” She waited for his reluctant nod and continued, “And just because Stephen’s not The One doesn’t mean you won’t find him someday.”

“I just don’t understand why I can’t love him. He’s wonderful! The perfect man and here I am still stuck on my childhood crush who ran out on me as soon as I told him I loved him. What’s wrong with me?”

“Love makes us do funny things, Quat. Matters of the heart aren’t something that’s easily understandable. You have to try to let him go, though. For your own good as well as Stephen’s.”

“I’m trying to. I just...don’t know why I can’t. It’s not as if he cares about me, but I’m still holding onto this little flicker of hope that he’ll come back -”

“And whisk you away like they do in those cheesy romance films? Yeah, I get it, believe me, but life doesn't work like that.”

“Well, it should,” he grumbled petulantly, leaning back to give the waiter room to put his salad down. He picked up his fork and pushed around the colorful green foliage. His appetite seemed to have hitched a ride to a better place.

Iria chuckled and speared a cherry tomato. “It would be nice, wouldn’t it? Listen, alhabiba. I would like nothing more than to see your dreams come true, but sometimes things just don’t happen the way we plan.”

He suddenly felt like crying, chest tightening and eyes stinging. Damn, but why did he always feel like he was five steps behind everyone else? Like he was being offered chances at happiness, but kept missing them because he was perpetually nodding off in the proverbial pilot’s seat of life. He took a long sip of frigid water to soothe the burning lump in his throat and forced himself to ask the million dollar question. “How do I get out of this?”

Iria shrugged and popped the tomato into her mouth. “You have to tell him the truth and let him decide what he wants to do. You have to give him a choice. There is no other way.”

He felt a rising rush of anxiety twisting his belly and gave up the pretense of eating altogether. He set his fork down and folded his hands in front of his mouth, his voice muffled when he said, “I hope you have a good return policy on your dress then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Al’akh al’asghar" ~ Little brother.
> 
> "Alhabiba" ~ Sweetie.
> 
> "Easal" ~ Honey.


	3. Chapter 3

“Yo, Tro! What up, buddy pal, my man? You’re not going to spend the day with your dick in your hand, are you?” **  
**

More than used to Duo’s vulgar ways, Trowa propped his chin on his fist and glowered at the grinning man. “When have I ever spent my day with my dick in my hand?”

“Psssh. Every dude does that at least once.”

“What do you want, Duo?”

“It’s the big day!" Duo's expression was one of transparently false enthusiasm which gave him an eerie, almost mannequin-esque look. “Last chance to do your _thang_ before blondie takes the plunge. You’re not actually going to let him go through with this charade, are you?”

“He’s a grown man, Duo. I don’t own him. He makes his own decisions. If he didn’t want to do this, he wouldn’t be doing it.”

Duo’s face drooped and Trowa bristled at the pity in his friend's eyes. “You are one dense fucker, you know that?”

He shifted in discomfort. Ironically enough, that was exactly what Heero had said the other night. “You been talking to Yuy?”

“'Yuy'? What are you, Wufei?”

“We’re...not exactly on a first name basis at the moment.” He doubted they were even on a last name basis either. Heero wasn’t exactly cordial when they’d spoken, though Trowa couldn’t really blame him. Heero had taken his rejection of Quatre quite personally. Not surprising with how close the two were. When it came to Quatre, Heero was as protective as a mother grizzly defending her cub.

“Yeah, I know. He’s pretty ticked at ya,” Duo quipped with a wink.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

“So what’d he tell you?”

Trowa leaned back in his chair and worried his lip between his teeth. It wasn’t something he was eager to share. Heero’s biting words still stung and they probably would for some time. Trowa had taken most of it in subdued silence, knowing he’d brought it on himself. He'd expected as much when he called and Heero certainly didn't disappoint.

“I’m sure you can imagine, can’t you?”

“Naw, I wanna hear it. S’not very often our Hee-chan tears someone a new asshole these days. I’m feeling nostalgic.”

“You’re a dick,” he muttered when Duo flashed him a toothy grin. “Well, let’s see...he called me just about every name in the book, cussed me out -”

“English, or Japanese?”

“Both.”

“ _Dayum_. That’s quite an honor. He doesn’t do that very often. You done pissed that boy off.”

Trowa glared at him. “Could you possibly _not_ act so goddamned pleased about all this?”

Duo shrugged. “Okay, sorry.” Though he looked and sounded anything but. “What did you say?”

“I wasn’t able to get much in edgewise, at least in the beginning. And I knew I didn’t really have any ground to stand on. I didn’t argue with him.”

“Because you know he’s right.”

“I...I don’t -”

“Tro,” Duo interrupted, adopting his best mock-stern voice, the kind he liked to use when he was dishing out what he thought was fatherly advice. Trowa looked up to see the other man’s brows furrowed as he stared him down and knew he was in for another lecture. “You _know_ he’s right. I know you know. You know you know. He knows you know. The only one who doesn’t know is Quatre.”

“How could I even - Duo, I can’t do this! I can’t just barge in on his wedding and tell him I was wrong and then demand he dump his boyfriend to be with me. I’ve had two years to change this and I didn’t and he’s moved on. It’s too late. I’m not going to fuck up his life all over again.”

“You won’t, Tro! This is what he wants, man. He wants _you_. He loves you!”

“So why doesn’t he tell me that?”

“He _did,_ remember?”

Trowa stopped short, his mouth snapping shut. Damn. He did, didn’t he? But...wasn’t it too late now? How could he live with himself if he disrupted Quatre’s wedding ceremony like some love-sick Neanderthal and made some corny sounding speech about how he'd realized the error of his ways? How could he live with himself if he ruined Quatre's relationship with his soon-to-be-husband just because he was too afraid to tell the blond what he should have said two years ago?

Then again...how could he live with himself if he didn’t?

“Tro, you are one of the most ballsy guys I’ve ever met, man. I’ve watched you throw yourself into the thick of battle and defy Death hundreds of times without batting an eye. But when it comes to Quat, I swear to Shinigami, you are the biggest _pussy_.”

Trowa couldn’t even find it in himself to be annoyed by that. Duo was right. He really was a pussy when it came to Quatre. He was terrified. Breaking his neck in a fall? Oh, well. Shit happens. Death? Pffft, whatever. Lifetime commitment with the man he’d loved since he was sixteen? Suddenly he wanted to curl into a fetal position and bawl like a baby. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Look, buddy. I get it, okay? When Hilde suggested we move in together, I nearly pissed myself. I kept thinking, what the fuck am I doing? I don’t know how to do this. I’m going to fuck everything up so bad. But you know what?”

“What?”

“I didn’t. Sure, we have problems. It’s no picnic trying to get used to living with someone’s weird habits day in and day out. We fight about money and we fight about mixing colors with the whites and we fight about stupid fucking shit, but at the end of the day, we still love each other. We make it work because we want this. So...you have to ask yourself, do you want that with Quat? Do you want to spend the next twenty, or thirty, or however many years wondering, what if? Or are you going to finally grow a pair and go fucking take what you want?”

Trowa pressed his lips together and thought back to his conversation with Heero. Beneath the swearing and the berating, there had been an air of desperate encouragement in Heero’s voice. A kind of subtle goading, a brotherly push down the right path, disguised as a swift kick in the ass.

He didn’t realize it at the time, but Heero had given him a good, old-fashioned dose of Tough Love.

 

*******

 

“If you let him go...if you break his heart like this, I will never forgive you. I did not sign up to spend the rest of my life mailing out Christmas cards to Mr. and Mrs. Stephen fucking Woodrow every year.”

Despite the somber mood, Trowa's mouth curled up at the corners. “I don’t know which is funnier. The fact that you referred to Quatre as ‘Mrs.’ or the mental image of you sending out Christmas cards.”

Heero gave him a pointed look. “Any hypothetical Christmas cards I send will be addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Trowa Barton.”

He sobered quickly and studiously ignored the surge of giddiness that twisted his belly from the thought of Quatre becoming his ‘wife’. “Provided Quatre would even want to marry me, of course.”

“Trowa, don’t be stupid. You know damned well if you ordered him to put on a wedding gown and meet you at the nearest chapel, he’d be there with bells on.”

“I don’t think he’d appreciate the whole gown, bride, 'wife' thing.”

“Be that as it may. You know what I mean.”

“Heero, I just - what could I possibly have to offer him? I have nothing. I share a beat-down trailer with my sister for Christ’s sake.”

“If you honestly think Quatre gives a shit about any of that, then perhaps you don’t know him as well as I thought.”

He looked down at his lap as his cheeks flushed with shame. “I’m not good enough for him. He deserves better.”

“You’re the only one who thinks that. No one else thinks so, but I might be inclined to if you actually let him marry that asshole.”

“What do you have against this guy anyway?”

“He’s not you,” Heero answered in his typical blunt, no-nonsense way. “And Quatre will never be happy with him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You are the most dense fucker I’ve ever met in my life and that’s saying something considering I work with Chang and Merquise everyday.”

Insulted, he folded his arms across his chest and snapped, “So what are you suggesting I do?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“Because I care about Quatre. And I do care about you, contrary to popular belief. He’s miserable. He tries to hide it, but I can see it. He doesn’t want this. He’s only doing it because he believes this is his only chance to have a meaningful relationship.”

“And what if you’re wrong?”

Heero leaned forward until his nose was close enough to touch the screen. It would have been comical if not for the intensity of his dark blue eyes. “You should know well enough by now that I am _never_ wrong.”

 

*******

 

“Hell _ooo!_ Hey, Tro! You spacin’ out on me again, dude?”

“Hmm?” He snapped back to the present and stared dumbly at the screen as Duo waved his hand in front of it. “Sorry, what?”

“You havin’ war flashbacks, or somethin’, bud?”

“No. Sorry, I was just...I was thinking about my chat with Heero.”

“Uh-huh.” Duo tapped his index finger against his lip. “Well, at least you referred to him by his given name this time. I’d call that progress.” He waited to see if Trowa would say anything more and when he didn’t, he prompted, “So?”

“So...what?”

Duo rolled his eyes. “Are you gonna man up and rescue blondie from the clutches of the handsome and suave Mr. Woodrow, or are you going to sit there in your trailer with your thumbs up your butt?”

Fuck, this really was the moment of truth, wasn't it? This was it. He was standing at the edge of a crossroad. Either direction he chose could make, or break his future. And he had to make a choice. It was now, or never. He had only - he glanced at the clock - five hours to get his ass to L4 if that was the direction he decided to take. If he was ever going to have a chance to stop this thing, if he was ever going to have a chance with Quatre, he needed to get over his fear and he needed to do it fast. 

He remembered a young soldier, nearly dead in Trowa’s bed for well over a week from a failed suicide attempt. He’d helped Catherine nurse the boy back to health while a steady mantra chased its tail inside his mind. A mantra, playing on an endless loop, reminding him of what he'd planned to do.

_When the time comes, you can’t mess it up. When you do this, there can be no chance of survival. You don't want to end up like this kid. It's a one-way ticket, Barton. It's your job to make sure it is._

And that boy knew it once he was finally cognizant again. How he knew, Trowa had no idea, but he knew. He didn’t try to stop Trowa. Didn’t try to talk him out of it. Didn’t try to tell him that yes, there was _something_ to live for and all he had to do was find it. He didn't say anything because he knew it didn't matter. Because he'd been there, too.

They’d formed an odd sort of kinship, built on the understanding that death was an inevitable and just fate for lost souls such as they. Something they’d both accepted with a heavy resignation and the weariness of two young boys who’d seen and killed and lived through more than most adults five times their age. At the time, neither of them believed there was ever any coming back from that.

That boy departed once he was well enough with a short, but genuine expression of gratitude for their hospitality and three simple words of advice, the latter of which was directed at Trowa. Advice that may have seemed trite and shallow to an outsider, but to Trowa, it had meant everything.

_Follow your heart._

That advice served him well in the two years since Heero had given it. Those words were what brought him back to Quatre and which ultimately lead to the recovery of his memories. Those three words hadn’t failed him yet. He had no reason to believe they would fail him now.

“Duo?”

“Yeah?”

“I estimate a thirty minute drive to the shuttle port, depending on traffic conditions. From there, it’ll probably take me around four hours to get to L4.” He left the rest unspoken. It didn’t need to be said. Duo got the gist and his eyes lit up in triumph.

“You got it, buddy. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll stall the ceremony until you get here. You just get your ass here in one piece.”

“I will. Thanks, Duo.”

“I’m just glad you finally came to your senses. I was beginning to lose hope that you ever would. Talk about pushing the envelope.”

“I just need to pack a few things and then I’ll be off.”

“Just hurry, bro. Ain’t got much time. It won't be long before Quat sniffs me out and gets suspicious. You know how he is.”

He smiled fondly. Quatre's gift of perception was legendary. “I'm leaving in five and I'll be there as soon as I can.”

He snapped his laptop shut and hurried to his closet, pulling a large duffle out. He carelessly stuffed it with a few days’ worth of clothing, tossed in his phone and charger, then left his bedroom to grab a few toiletries from the bathroom.

“Got a hot date, little brother?”

He could hear the smugness in Catherine's voice and turned to see her standing in the doorway with her arms folded across her chest. Her face held nothing back and normally Trowa would have been irked by the obvious, ‘I told you so,’ but at the moment, he was far too apprehensive and distracted to let it bother him.

“Cath, I gotta go to L4 for a few days...maybe more. I don’t know how long yet.”

She grinned wide and stepped out of the way, shooing him off with a flick of her wrist. “Go! Off with you. Don’t come back until you’ve put a ring on it!"

_Jesus, is the Beyonce reference really necessary?_

He was halfway in the driver’s seat when she threw the trailer door open and called out, “I have dibs on the wedding plans!”

He popped his head up over the top of the truck and gave her a dark look. “Don’t jinx me, Cath. At least wait until you know he didn’t murder me for ruining his wedding day.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine. Go on. Get your scrawny ass out of here and sweep your boy off his feet.”

He slammed the door closed and smoothly slid the key into the ignition, cranking it until the truck’s engine roared to life.

There was no time to think, no time to second guess. If he allowed himself that, he would chicken out, no doubt about it. Call the whole thing off and bury himself under his bed covers for the next three months while he vegged out on soap operas, processed food, and wallowed in self-pity.

When he thought about it that way, it was quite an effective incentive. At least enough to keep his foot on the gas. Anxiety made his belly tight and slightly queasy. This could go one of two ways. Either Quatre would melt at his confession, mumble an offhand apology to his newly ex-fiance, and then launch himself into Trowa’s arms with an exuberant, but noticeably seductive, “What the hell took you so long? Oh, who cares. Make love to me right here on the altar, you stud.”

He winced and shook his head as he gunned the truck through a questionably yellow traffic light. That was wishful thinking, not a potential outcome.

Who was he kidding? Quatre would probably stare up at him with those giant, guileless eyes that somehow managed to conceal the immeasurable intelligent and cunning mind behind them, shock rendering him silent, but not for long. Never for long. Then those delicately tapered brows would knit and lower and those serene turquoise gems, so angelic just a moment before, would darken like the gathering clouds of a storm.

There would be a pregnant pause, a stillness so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and then all hell would break loose. Duo would probably shout something along the lines of, “Oh, shit, here it comes. Take cover! He’s gonna blow!” And then a heart beat later, his premonition would come to fruition as the rarely witnessed, but formidable wrath of a pissed off Winner rained fire and brimstone upon the mass of hapless spectators.

And God help those who lived to tell about it.

“I’m either the craziest son of a bitch alive, or the stupidest,” he muttered as he steered his truck into the first driveway of the shuttle port and headed towards the large parking structure. He took his ticket and pulled into a spot, cutting the engine with a heavy sigh. “And I’m sure Quatre will be more than happy to let me know which before he breaks my nose.”


End file.
